


if you look my way one more time

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dirty Talk, Drunk Jon, F/M, Fluff, Groping, Modern Westeros, Pining, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sober Sansa to the rescue, Texting, i write a lot of pub fics bc i'm probably drinking abt 78 percent of the time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 20:05:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13865046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: When Jon shirks his designated driver responsibilities in favour of drinking his feelings, Sansa is forced to step in to play his knight-in-totally-cute-ankle-boots.aka: the stupid hot handsy makeout fic(title from “whatever you do! don’t!,” by shania twain)





	if you look my way one more time

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: still in the middle of edits for the “when we kiss: mmmm, fire” chapter update, but i was feeling a bit burned out and needed a little palate cleanser — so here’s this!

The text comes in at ten-oh-two on Friday night, just as Sansa’s kicked off her shoes and is that much closer to making her fantasy of a late-night bubble bath a reality.

 **GILLY** : I hate to do this to you, Sansa, I know you were at the office until just now, probably, but Sam’s texted me and the boys are completely plastered. Com. Plete. Ly. I’d get them myself but Little Sam’s ill, and gods only know that public transportation’s total shite ‘round The North Wall, but nooooo, of course that’s where they HAD TO GO, because suddenly they’ve all been hit with the nostalgia bug and want to bask in the glory of their lost youth, never MIND the fact that they’re twenty-seven years old and they just reclaimed their “lost youth” two weekends ago.

Sansa tries not to laugh, but it’s always a trip when mild-mannered Gilly loses her temper. Although, admittedly, while she’d heard the well-worn story of the time Gilly absolutely laid into Sam’s father, Sansa had never borne witness to anything but Gilly’s sweet side — had doubted, in fact, that any other side could exist.

Everyone else, though, said it was quite the spectacle, so Sansa has to wonder how poor Sam could slip up so badly as to pique his girlfriend’s ire.

 **SANSA** : It’s no trouble, doll. I’m closer than you are, anyway. Shall I assume they’re at the Night’s Watch?

 **GILLY** : Of course they are, the lot of them — Sam, Jon, Edd, Pyp, and Grenn. And much as I hate to ask more favours of you, please tear Jon a new one while you’re at it. He was supposed to be DD.

 _That so?_ Sansa frowns. That’s not like Jon at all.

 **SANSA** : We’re talking about JON SNOW?

 **GILLY** : Well that’s what *I* said. But according to Sam — who’s barely coherent when he’s been drinking, if you can believe it of such a usually well-versed man — they all got to teasing Jon, and you KNOW how they are so I wouldn’t blame him for needing a few drinks to cope, if only it didn’t end up driving me nutters.

 **SANSA** : What on earth could they tease him about THAT MUCH?

 **GILLY** : Sam told me not to tell but I don’t care, let me screenshot his messages for you…

Sansa’s frown deepens with her confusion. _What do I need screenshots for?_

But before she can begin to flit through the possibilities in her mind, her phone chirps a few times as she’s slipping back into her ankle boots.

 **SAM** : dont b mad gilly remeber hwo much i lvoe u

 **GILLY** : I’ve been awake for 24 hours with a very ill and temperamental toddler, Sam, frankly I don’t care how much you love me.

 **SAM** : gILLY thats mean!!!

 **GILLY** : I’m already mad, so just get on with it.

 **SAM** : were fonna need a ride home jon glt drjnk bc we kept talkin about sanana &! how much hs loves her almst as much as i lobe u

 **GILLY** : Jon got drunk because you all made fun of how much he loves Santana? As in the band? Jon doesn’t like Santana.

 **SAM** : no SANSA and he likes her VREY MUCH GILLY like WHOA u dont even KNWO how much

 **SAM** : but he kept sayin ‘oh no she doesnf like me like that jst drop it lads’ but we DIDNT gilly we dksnt drop it so he gor all broody like ‘i need a drunk’ but then hs had SIX gilky he had SIX DRINKS adn now hes getting all wistful-lkie takkin bout SANSA

The screenshots end there, and before Sansa can regulate her mad hammering heartbeat long enough to process them, Gilly chimes in with another message right after.

 **GILLY** : You get the point. I probably shouldn’t have sprung that on you so I’m sorry if you’ve gone into some sort of paralyzing shock. But I figure Jon may never tell you, as he is clearly WEAK and USELESS, so now you know.

 **GILLY** : …Jon’s not weak and useless, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just irritated with all of them. Actually I think you two would make a wonderful couple, especially since I caught you sighing over his Facebook photos at work the other day.

 **SANSA** : That was NOTHING, I told you I was doing NOTHING.

 **GILLY** : Well obviously you LIED.

Sansa starts typing another reply, a further denial, but then heaves a sigh of surrender; after all, no lie’s ever been made better with _more lies_.

 **SANSA** : Alright, so I was mooning over him. You caught me. And now I’ve got to go rescue his fine drunk arse, so… pray for me.

 **GILLY** : If it’s any consolation, I think you’d look totally bangin’ in the whole knight-in-shining-armour getup.

 **SANSA** : #SubvertThePatriarchy. Cheers.

 

* * *

 

The North Wall district is only a ten-minute drive from Sansa’s flat, but with the weekend traffic it takes twice as long. She has to park a block away from the Night's Watch — a popular sports-style pub that’s been like a second home to Jon and his mates since their days at uni — and is positively dreading the trip back, when she’s got five drunk idiots to corral down the road and into her car.

_Oh well. A small price to pay if there’s any merit to those screenshots._

Sansa’s heart flips with every step she takes down the street, and it practically leaps from her chest when she nudges the pub door open and spots the boys — spots _Jon_ — straightaway.

Grenn sees her first and shouts, “OI! It’s Sansa!”

“Snow’s birthday’s come early this year!” Pyp sniggers, and lifts his mug to Sansa as she makes her way to their table.

Jon, meanwhile, spins in his seat so quickly that he nearly topples off it. Sansa reaches him just in time, catching him by the shoulders to steady him, and his arms go automatically ‘round her waist as if they’re meant to be there. She quite likes that thought, but wishes he didn’t have to be so very and clearly drunk to carry it out.

“Sansa!” he exclaims, rather giddily and quite loudly (if a bit hoarse and scratchy from so much drink) enough to be heard over the _thump-thump-thump_ of the oversaturated bass beating from the surround-sound speakers. The lights are dim, but Sansa can still easily make out the dopey grin on Jon’s face as he looks at her. “I didn’t know you were coming! Are you here by yourself?”

His smile quickly disappears and his brow furrows into a frown. “You didn’t come with someone, did you? This isn’t a very good place for a first date, you know, I’d take you someplace better.”

“You’ve brought me here a thousand times, Jon,” Sansa reminds him, and reminds herself in turn that he’s drunk off his arse and perhaps can’t be trusted at the moment — no matter how many butterflies erupt in her gut when he holds her tighter and pulls her closer, ‘til she’s nestled snugly between his thighs.

“Not on a _date_ , I haven’t,” Jon points out, and then he presses his lips together as he seems to be considering something. Then… “Oh, gods, Sansa, those _weren’t_ dates, were they? I can do so much better than that, Sansa, I promise, you haven’t got to come here with someone else —”

She pushes two fingers against his lips to quiet him; it’s not her brightest idea, since Jon then takes it upon himself to part his lips against her fingertips, and she can feel the warmth of his breath on her skin and _gods_ , she wants to feel those lips and that breath _all over her_ …

“I’m not here with anyone. I came by myself,” Sansa tells him in an effort to claim some control of herself. “I’ve been assigned your chauffeur for the evening since _someone_ —” she looks meaningfully at Jon, who smiles apologetically in response “— slacked on his designated driver duties.”

“Are you angry with me?” Jon pouts against her fingers that are still pressed to his mouth for god-knows- _why_ , Sansa berates herself and moves her hand away.

But Jon catches her wrist before she can drop it entirely, and tugs her arm ‘round his shoulder. He smiles up at her — she’s a bit taller than him when he’s sitting, although they stand the same height — as he does likewise with her other arm. His hands slide down her arms and settle back on her waist and he says, quite happy with the way he orchestrated that little move, “ _Mmm_. That’s better.”

 _You can say that again…_ Sansa’s stomach somersaults and her heart lodges itself somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. She swallows.

“I’m not angry,” she says through a few deep breaths. She can’t help but try to steady herself when Jon’s looking at her _like that_ — all soft eyes and soft smile, although she just bets his beard is rough and he’d probably kiss her like he means it. “Gilly’s a bit put-off, though.”

Across the table, Sam groans dejectedly, but otherwise seems resigned to his fate; he takes a long pull of beer, just in case, and says, “Well, at least our couch is comfortable.”

The rest of the boys _cheers_ _!_ to that, but Jon’s still got his back turned to the table, looking at Sansa. His hands rub circles into her lower back and somehow she’s closer to him than she was before, when she thought _closer_ couldn’t be possible. But now she can feel his heartbeat and smell the sweat that’s permeated his pine-scented aftershave, and she could count the faint freckles under his eyes to almost complete success.

“Are you going to make me sleep on the couch, Sansa?” Jon wants to know, his voice a husky whisper that shoots one thrill after another down Sansa’s spine — but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t got any self-control, damn it.

So she answers him, “No, I’m going to take you back to yours and you can sleep wherever you like when we get there.”

A small frown graces his mouth again — his full, unfairly pretty mouth… _Oh, get ahold of your goddamn loins, Sansa!_ Although it’s a near-impossible thing to do, Sansa admits, getting ahold of your loins when Jon Snow’s got his hands on you and his breath in your face and he’s looking at you like he’d very much like to… Well, Sansa’s not quite sure, exactly, _what_ Jon might like to do to her, but a part of her — the immoral, lascivious part of her — really hopes he’ll tell her.

“I want to sleep where you are,” he decides. He tilts his head thoughtfully, and his specs slip down his nose. Sansa pushes them back into place and Jon kisses her fingers again when she’s finished. “If you take me back to mine, will you stay there with me? Please?”

In an attempt to retain some shred of self-control — because, alright, maybe she really _hasn’t_ got any to speak of when it comes to Jon — Sansa purses her lips to keep the smile at bay. “You’re like a little kid when you’ve been drinking, aren’t you?”

“You’ve seen me drunk before.”

“Not _this_ drunk.”

“I’m not a _little kid_ , Sansa,” he says, as though he’s just processed her assessment. His hands slide ‘round to hold her hips and he jerks her, hard, against his chest. “I’m an _adult man_ , alright, I can prove it to you if you want.”

 _Ooh, fuck me…_ Sansa somehow, miraculously, manages to keep from rubbing her thighs together when Jon’s voice drops to a growl, when his breath fans her throat and sends her pulse _wild_. Her arms are around his neck and her fingers are playing with the loose curls that spring forth from its nape. He seems to like that, because he hums and leans into her touch.

“You’re so sweet, Sansa,” he murmurs as she keeps up her ministrations through his hair. His thumbs dip beneath the hem of her shirt, just so, to rub insistent circles into her bare hip bones. “So pretty. And so _clean_ , you smell so good…” Jon leans again, this time closer, so that the tip of his nose traces the curve of her neck. “ _So_ good. I wanna dirty you up. I think about it all the time. I know I shouldn’t but I _do_ , Sansa…”

His breath is hot on her skin, but Sansa shudders all the same, and she can feel Jon’s mouth twitch up into a grin when he kisses behind her ear.

“Do you like when I talk to you like that?” he husks and squeezes her hips. “Margaery told me you would.”

Sansa jumps a little, but Jon’s hold on her tightens and she doesn’t get very far — not far at all, actually, since he tugs her more firmly against him in an apparently premeditated gesture. But even though her body had betrayed her so, Sansa’s mind is back on task when she half-yelps in surprise, “Margaery told you _what_?”

“Here —” Eager to please, Jon fishes his phone from his pocket, hands it over, and kisses her cheek in one fluid motion. It’s rather impressive, really, how coordinated the move is, considering what his blood/alcohol level is sure to be. “Don’t be upset, Sansa, she just _told_ me, so I thought I should —”

“I’m not upset,” Sansa shushes him gently. He smiles, pleased to hear it, and she absentmindedly strokes the scruff on his jaw while she flicks through his phone to see her best friend’s words — timestamped some three days prior — for herself.

 **MARGAERY** : countdown to the weekend has officially begun, snowblower. ya gonna get hammered hard enough to make a move on my girl or what??

 **JON** : Please don’t call me that. have you been hanging around theon??

 **MARGAERY** : um i’m sleeping with his sister so yeah, kinda. god. where have you been? writing lovelorn emo poetry about weirwood-leaf hair and narrow sea eyes and a voice that must be descended from bael the bard himself?

 **JON** : I did that ONCE in a drunken stupor like TWO YEARS AGO, and I’d really appreciate it if you all just let it go. if i could reasonably sue theon for swiping my old music notebook i really fucking would, by the way

 **MARGAERY** : well i hope you’re better with dirty talk than you are at sad hetero boy poetry bc sansa could go for a little feather-rufflin’, ya dig??

 **JON** : How did you even get my phone number

 **MARGAERY** : i assume that’s jon-speak for ‘oh thank the old gods that margaery has no respect for personal boundaries and even less respect for the law bc otherwise i never would have known how to relieve myself of my perpetual sansa boner’ god jon relax YOU’RE WELCOME i’m just happy to help :)

 **JON** : Are you actually going to tell me how to relieve myself of my perpetual Sansa boner, or are you just gonna take the piss forever?

 **MARGAERY** : oh-HO so he admits it!!!!!

 **JON** : Well you already KNOW and anyway i’ve just gotten home from work, i’m not in the mood to pretend i’m not fucking in love with her

 **MARGAERY** : so cranky! but since honesty is the best policy and should always be rewarded… seriously jon, talk dirty to her if you can swing it. all of her exes have been such fantastic bores in bed. it’s like white noise for thirty seconds, some ineffectual groping, a coupla grunts for another thirty, and then they’ve finished and sansa’s just glad she can get on with her day

 **MARGAERY** : passivity does not a satisfied sansa make, jonathan. so i hope you’re not as boring as you look

 **JON** : I don’t look BORING.

 **JON** : fuck

 **JON** : do i????

 **MARGAERY** : i’m very high-maintenance and hard to please. but literally whenever sansa and i get drunk together she talks about how pretty you are so i think you’re good. plus she definitely masturbates to you, like i hope you like ‘em loud bc sansa has got THINGS TO SAY when she’s coming

 **JON** : What the fuck

 **JON** : oh my god

 **JON** : I fucking… oh my god. are you. are you serious

 **JON** : holy shit margaery what the fUCK

 **MARGAERY** : ;D

 **MARGAERY** : that’s the spirit

Jon’s gaze is attentive, if a bit glazed-over, as Sansa reads through the messages. When she hands his phone back, she’s rather glazed-over herself, and Jon’s not quite drunk enough to miss the flush in her cheeks, she thinks, as he traces the blossoming pink with the pad of his thumb.

“See?” he says, as if he’s proven some sort of point with his texts (really, he’s only added credence to the screenshots Gilly had sent her earlier, but that’s plenty of a _point_ as far as Sansa’s concerned). “You wanna spend the night with me now?”

She _does_ ; she really, really does, Sansa considers rather frantically, and she tempers that desire by playing with his curls some more. In truth, touching Jon like this — so intimately, so domestically — only makes her want him more, but it grounds her to sense and reason, too, and sense and reason remind her that Jon is soused and she’s supposed to be _helping_ , not hitting on, him.

But before she can steer the conversation somewhere else — somewhere _safe_ — Jon’s hands are kneading her hips with some newfound purpose and he asks, rather out-of-the-blue, “Sansa, will you kiss me?”

He looks so earnest and hopeful, Sansa has to give him a smile and a little surrender: “Only a little bit,” she says, with the express intent to peck his cheek and nothing more.

“How about a lot a bit?” Jon presses, grinning in such a way he must think is charming, but is truly the goofiest thing Sansa’s ever seen and that, in itself, is a charm all its own.

“That’s a contradiction in terms, Jon.”

He sighs. “You’re so pretty when you say things that don’t make sense.”

“It _would_ make sense,” Sansa insists, and her fingers flex in his hair, “if you hadn’t gone and chucked your designated driver responsibilities out the window —”

 _“Sansa.”_ Jon’s voice is a low rumble, his eyes dark in the dim pub light, and suddenly there’s nothing else — no music, no crowd, nothing but Jon’s growl and his pine-and-sweat scent and the way he’s holding her, the way he’s looking at her… “Kiss me.”

She swallows again, past the lump in her throat that she’d bet her life is really her heart, and leans ever-so-slightly, just enough to press her lips to the rough stubble on his cheek, just enough to keep him happy.

But it’s _not_ enough. Sansa can feel it in the shock that ricochets through her body as soon as her lip gloss sticks to his skin, in the tightening of his grip on her hips, in the softly aggravated sigh that escapes him — because it’s not enough, and now he'll show her what _is_.

“No, not like that —” Jon tilts his head when she makes to pull back, and kisses her full on the mouth.

Part of Sansa wonders if she should have expected this, but the thought is fleeting because she gasps in response regardless. Jon’s hands sweep the expanse of her back before they lock onto her waist, before they tug her closer — _impossibly closer_ — and he groans into her mouth when her lips part at the barest pressure of his tongue.

And her heart fucking _sings_.

She meets his tongue for one stroke, for two — his slides so sweetly against hers, lips pressing and urging hers further apart and she _sighs_ , teeth clashing once, and then their tongues meet again… and Sansa can taste it on him, the bitters, the hops, the tang of drunkenness —

She jerks back, and when Jon blinks up at her, dazed, she unconsciously sucks her bottom lip between her teeth to chase that tingle his scruff left behind.

Jon whimpers at the movement, at the loss of her kiss, and he chases her lips the way she’d only just chased his taste and whines, “Sansa, that was so good, why’d you stop?”

“Because you’re drunk.” She prays for her voice to steady, but her prayer goes unanswered.

“Then you get drunk, too.” Jon keeps one arm locked around her, and reaches behind him with his free hand for a glass. He finds them all empty but remains undeterred. “Then we’re even.”

Sansa chuckles, even as her heart falls. _Will he even want to kiss me tomorrow?_ She’s seen a dozen texts to prove it, and yet…

Well, it’s just not the same as if he’d tell her himself, with a clear head and undilated eyes.

“I’d rather get you sober,” Sansa confesses. She scrubs light fingertips through his beard again to soothe away another pout, whether it’s born of true consternation or simple inebriation. “We can have a drunken snog some other time.”

Again, Jon snags her fingers before she can slip from his hold, and plants an open-mouthed kiss to her palm. His breath is warm and thick, and it makes that shudder wrack up and down her spine again.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Sansa,” he promises. “But I’m still gonna try to kiss you so hard that you don't wanna go home tonight.”

She laughs again, but… Jon’s gaze bores into hers, smouldering with some barely-restrained intent, and Sansa’s not sure that there’s anything actually _funny_ about this at all.

 

* * *

 

Sansa does, eventually, get the boys sorted — drinks polished off, tabs paid and tips left — and down the street to her car. Sam, Pyp, Grenn, and Edd are all squashed into the backseat, and Jon claims the passenger one.

A mistake, really, Sansa thinks as his hand smooths up and down her thigh for the duration of the drive. Not that she doesn’t like his attentions — she _loves_ them, she may be a tad bit obsessed with them — but they’re a distraction when she’s trying not to run them off the road, or to simply pull off to the side so Jon can have his way with her right here and now, his less-than-sober state forgotten and present company be damned.

The group stops for coffee and sandwiches — “ _Don’t_ toss it up in my car,” Sansa warns, “I’ve only just redone the upholstery” — and afterwards the boys are more drowsy than intoxicated. All the same, it’s tricky business, getting Grenn, Pyp, and Edd up to their shared third-floor flat, but Sansa has always prided herself on efficiency and she manages well enough with Jon and Sam’s offered help.

When Pyp knocks over a lamp, thrusting the sitting room onto momentary darkness, Jon takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around Sansa from behind. His chest presses up to her back, his hands map her lower abdomen, and he breathes into her ear — rough and low, but still so _loud_ as his words reverberate in the delicate skin of her jaw — “So you gonna stay with me tonight, pretty girl?”

“Jon,” she tries to admonish him, but it’s no use when he captures her earlobe between his teeth and all she wants to do is tell him _don’t stop_.

“I’ll talk to you some more,” he whispers as his friends continue to struggle with the lamp, oblivious to what the two of them are doing in the dark. “Whatever you want. I promise I’ll make it good for you.”

 _I don’t doubt that_ , she thinks, but before she can say it — or anything at all — Jon’s sucked a hickey just below her ear and the lamp’s back on.

“Fuckin’ _seven hells_ ,” Edd grumbles at the pair of them, when Jon doesn’t let her go and instead kisses her temple for everyone to see. “Get a room, would you? Preferably in your own flat.”

“What d’you think I’m trying to do?” Jon jokes, but he holds Sansa tighter and she knows he means it.

The trip to Jon and Sam’s building is less eventful, but they stop for another coffee and by the time they’re through, Jon is far less drunk than he’d been when Sansa had arrived at the Night’s Watch pub a couple of hours earlier. She can feel his eyes on her throughout the last leg of their trip home, so intense and unyielding that not even Sam’s snores from the back can crack the tense energy between the occupants of the front seats.

“Stop it,” Sansa mutters, just loud enough to be heard over the murmur of the radio. She taps on the brakes when the light goes red.

The rustle of movement next to her puts her on high alert, but she keeps her eyes steady on the traffic light.

“Stop what?” Jon asks in such a way that she can practically _hear_ his smug grin. He sounds tired, too, but no less pleased with himself; and it must be that self-satisfied confidence that compels him to lean in, hand on her thigh and his lips at her jaw. His beard tickles her cheek, her neck, as he nuzzles into her. “I’m not doing anything.”

“What are you, six?” she snaps. Her leg twitches when his hand slips between her knees, thumb dragging against the soft cotton of her leggings, all but burning a hole through them — if such a thing were only possible, but then Sansa’s on goddamn fire herself right now, so who is she to say? “What’s next — ‘I’m not touching you,’ even though you _clearly are_?”

He licks behind her ear — once, twice, three times… “You want me to stop?”

_Fuck._

She doesn’t answer — doesn’t trust herself to answer — so Jon pulls back, but keeps his hand where it is, continuing its gentle caress. Sansa glances at him to gauge his reaction to her _non_ -reaction, but he’s only got that soft smile on his face again, the same one he’d worn at the pub as she’d stood between his legs and in his arms, with her fingers in his curls and her nerves turned to Mexican jumping beans.

And, suddenly, Sansa is struck with how often he looks at her _like that_. Because it wasn’t just tonight — it wasn’t just in some dopey, drunken stupor that Jon had looked at her like he’d been struck by lightning and she’d hung the moon, like he couldn’t quite believe she was real.

No, Sansa realizes, and feels like a proper idiot for having never noticed before (perhaps because her self-esteem had been too shot-to-hell for her to entertain such hopes), but — this is how he looks at her _all the time_.

Well. Sansa’s having a rather hard time catching her breath at present. _Well._

The light turns green and Sansa drives on through, all the while dealing with this new development. Or, she supposes, her discovery of a development that’s been a long time in the making.

Her mind’s reeling and she’s not sure what else to say but the silence is suffocating — nothing but the car tires on dusty roads, the snap of the late-night summer breeze through the windows, Sam’s stream of snores, and the steady beat of Jon’s breath — so she reiterates, “Stop looking at me.”

A long, slow exhale, and then Jon’s hand touches her cheek and he tells her through a short, strained laugh, “You’re asking a lot of me there, Sansa.”

Now she _really_ doesn’t know what to say. So she only glances at him again to catch that smile, that longing look in his eye, and — this time — she doesn’t say anything else.

 

* * *

 

They drop Sam off at his ground-floor flat. Gilly’s got her feet up, watching television with the volume and lights down low as Little Sam snoozes on the sofa next to her. Sam greets her with a sheepish smile; she rolls her eyes but smiles back, and then tosses a wink in Jon’s direction. He winks back — not _well_ , mind — and slips his hand into Sansa’s, interlacing their fingers and giving hers a squeeze.

“You wanna make sure I get upstairs safe?” he asks her, tone teasing, once they’ve bid goodnight to Sam and Gilly and are left alone in the hall.

And there goes her heart again, Sansa thinks when Jon’s free hand pushes her hair behind her ear. She toys with one of the buttons on his shirt and stares determinedly at his Adam’s apple when she replies: “You still totally sloshed?”

“Not totally,” Jon murmurs. He’s still playing with her hair. “Just enough that I need you to come upstairs with me.”

 _Well._ Sansa squares her shoulders and meets his eye, only to find him looking at her _like that_ : soft and steady but somehow, simultaneously, fierce and hot and like he could very well eat her alive and, honestly? He’s thinking about it.

And — _honestly?_ — how is a girl supposed to resist _that_?

When she nods her acquiescence, Jon’s chest hitches and his held breath releases in a rush, and then he’s pulling her down the hall to the lift — and, soon as the doors open, he yanks her inside and pushes her up against the wall, boxing her in with his chest and his arms and his mouth. The doors are hardly shut before that mouth is slanting over hers again, persistent lips prying hers apart so he can taste her anew.

“ _Mmmmph_ , fuck, Sansa,” he pants into her mouth, hands dragging down the length of her body. He catches her lips again — _and again and again and again_ — plucking kisses from her like flowers while his hands span her stomach, her hips, fingers clenching at her thighs… “I want you so much —”

“You gonna dirty talk me in the lift?” Sansa can’t help but tease him. Her own hands run up his chest, fingers spread upon his neck so that she can feel the ever-increasing beat of his pulse beneath her touch. “I never took you for an exhibitionist, Jon — oh, _fu—_ ”

She curses when he bites her neck, thrusts his hips upwards into hers, and then sucks on her skin to soothe the ache he left. His beard scrapes deliciously against her tingling, sensitive skin and, far beyond teasing now, Sansa can only think _holy shit, what a move_.

Jon, for his part, is clearly chuffed. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he rasps into her hair, “I’m gonna do whatever you want me to in this lift.”

And with that, he slams his hand into the emergency button, and the lift shudders to a halt between the third and fourth floors.

Then that hand is on her face, cupping her jaw as he tilts her chin upwards, to give himself better access to her neck, where he drags kisses with lips and teeth and tongue, littering little marks here and there and muttering sweet, filthy words into her skin.

“God _damn_ it, Sansa, I was happy to see you walk into that pub tonight,” he says, so emphatically it’s as though he’d been waiting for her to walk into that pub for far longer than just tonight. He twines his hand into her hair and tugs, as he continues to explore the curve of her jaw. “Was thinking about you all night… _before_ my mates started in on me,” he adds with a little grin, eyes on her lips before he takes them again.

“I wanted you to come out with us,” he continues, breath ragged when he slips one of his legs between hers. He moans when Sansa sighs, when she juts her hips to meet the slow cant of his. “But Sam said you were working… I almost came ‘round to your office…”

His hand dips between them to trace the apex of her thighs, fingertips slowly rotating into the cotton of her leggings. He kisses her chin, open-mouthed and sloppy and so fucking _hot_ when he tells her, “I could’ve taken you over your desk.”

Sansa twists her fingers in his curls and yanks him back to her mouth, so she can kiss him so hard and fast and possessive that their teeth knock together and he bites her lip. He chuckles into the kiss, and it breaks off into another groan when she rotates her center against his thigh.

 _“Fuck,”_ he growls, deep within his throat, and flexes his thigh along with her hips, “that’s it, baby, use me…”

“God —” Sansa nearly sobs when he nuzzles into the slope of her shoulder, tongue tasting, beard scratching “— you’re so _hot_ , Jon, honey, tell me more —”

“You like that?” The question is low, hoarse and a little shaky as it spills from Jon’s grinning mouth, bursting in one warm breath against Sansa’s lips. He rubs his hand more insistently, roughly, against the cotton that separates his seeking fingers from her desperate cunt, and he asks her, “You like that, too, don’t you? Like it when I muss you up like this, pretty girl — gods, so _fucking_ pretty, and I bet you’re so fucking _tight_ , too.”

Sansa’s hands shove up his shirt and Jon follows her lead. She explores the hard planes of his stomach and he grasps at her breasts over her thin lace bra. She can feel his cock twitch and harden fully, and he rams her _hard_ against the lift wall when her hand snakes down to palm him through his jeans.

“ _God_ , that’s good,” Jon breathes harshly through his nose as he looks down between them, tracking her movements as he continues to jerk his thigh against her pussy to give her the friction she seeks. “ _Mmm_ , Sansa, you fucking know how to touch me, baby, that’s so good…”

He looks up to meet her gaze, face flushed and eyes dark when they drop once more to her mouth. She’s worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. He swallows, and thumbs her lips apart so he might kiss her again, so he can take that lip between his own and nibble, bite, suck on it — and he _does_.

Sansa whimpers and moans and lets loose a sharp cry when he thrusts upwards, slamming her into the wall, and he swallows the sound and opens his mouth wider over hers, desperate and determined to catch every sound she makes with his hands on her.

She’s riding him harder, body restless, hands scrambling down his chest to his hips so she can direct his thrusts where she needs them most. Jon readily obliges, eager to make her come at least once before he gets her into his flat (where he fully intends to keep her through the rest of the weekend, and every one that follows until he can convince her to just _never leave_ ).

“That’s it, Sansa, sweetheart,” he hisses between clenched teeth, gritted determinedly as she rocks him against her. “Yeah, baby, boss me around, tell me what you want —”

 _“Harder,”_ she gasps, then moans when he immediately complies, pushing into her so hard and fast that the wall behind her shakes. “ _Mmmmm_ , Jon, fu— oh my _god_ , that’s good, you’re so good to me.”

His breath is coming in short, harsh bursts against her skin, now dotted with sweat. He noses her jaw, behind her ear, all the while rutting against her and thinking about how _so good_ it’ll feel to be inside her — against his door, the wall, on his couch, in his bed…

“Sansa —” he pants against her cheek “— baby, kiss me again.”

She catches his mouth and they exchange a moan between their lips, drinking down each other’s satisfaction so earnestly, ardently, that Sansa’s head spins and she feels as intoxicated as Jon was earlier when she’d breezed into the Night’s Watch pub to carry his fine drunk arse home.

(In the end, she hadn’t expected that she would wind up _home_ with him, but when he licks into her mouth and thrusts his cock against her in quick succession, she can’t bring herself to mind.)

 _“Jon —”_ she mewls his name and he whimpers, groans, roughly whispers her own back at her:  _Sansa Sansa Sansa…_

He can feel her body speed up, her heartbeat increase, her muscles clench, so Jon twines their fingers together to hold onto her, and he kisses her harder. He wants to swallow the sounds she makes when she hits her peak with him.

“Yeah, Sansa, _yes_ ,” he encourages her. “You’re so close, darling, let me make you come…”

He slides their joined hands up the wall next to her head, and squeezes her fingers when she cries out his name again, crashing onto his tongue as he drinks her sighs and moans and erratic whispers of _Jon Jon Jon_ — and _gods_ …

Jon never thought his name could taste so good, until it tumbled from Sansa’s mouth and spilled into his.

 

* * *

 

 **GILLY** : I heard Alliser cursing up a storm this morning. Something about a gross misuse of the lifts? You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, now, would you? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

 **JON** : Listen, i’ll tell you what i told thorne when he came banging on my door at the very inconvenient time of 6am — it WAS an emergency, and just as pressing was the emergency he’d just interrupted, as i’d left the shower running with a very VERY sleep-deprived young lady who could slip and hit her pretty little head if i wasn’t there to catch her in my big strong arms, OKAY ?

 **GILLY** : If Alliser spitefully jacks up the rent because you gave him your smarmy ‘guess who just got laid by the girl of his dreams’ attitude, you’ll be paying mine and Sam’s, too.

 **JON** : *‘guess who’s getting CONTINUALLY LAID by his FUTURE WIFE’ attitude, thanks

 **JON** : also i accept your terms

 **JON** : I told Sansa and she says ‘hashtag worth it’ and i’m gonna be honest, gilly, my smarmy attitude just got bumped up a couple notches

 **GILLY** : I’m screenshotting these messages so that A) I have the receipts re: the rent issue, and B) I can send a mass text to everyone we know to warn them that none of us will be able to stand you anymore. Sansa will, of course, still be welcome with open arms.

 **JON** : GOOD TELL THEM  
TELL EVERYONE  
I WANT LITERALLY EVERYONE TO KNOW

 **GILLY** : Ugh. Braggart.

 

* * *

 

 **MARGAERY** : got gilly’s group text. first of all, HILARIOUS. second, please tell me this means jon talked you out of your panties

 **MARGAERY** : i mean i have prayed to EVERY GOD so ya know i’ve got some crazy karmic bullshit comin my way but if you tell me jon snow went dirty for you then i will gladly hop into my personalized handbasket to whichever hell i’m destined for

 **SANSA** : Your undercover wingmanning was a success. I can’t get him to shut up now, honestly. But fuck me, I DO NOT mind. ;)

 **MARGAERY** : god. amazing. 10/10. details later, ya filthy animal — drinks at nana’s? she just restocked the poolside bar. say 4ish?

 **SANSA** : Cheers.

“Jon?” Sansa returns her phone to the bedside table when he pads back into the bedroom — shirtless, curls disheveled, and a toothbrush stuck in his mouth. He lifts an inquisitive brow, and she arches her own back at him. 

“I’m having drinks with Margaery tonight. Wanna be my DD?”

He returns her suggestive grin with his, and a wink with it, too. “Only if I can help you upstairs.”

“Bet on it, lover,” she promises, and laughs when Jon tosses his toothbrush carelessly over his shoulder, and clambers back onto the bed to join her amongst the twisted sheets.


End file.
